EMP: Return of the Wild West Box Set | Books 1-3

by Hamilton, Grace

  Really, the woods were crawling with big game. It wasn’t that big of a surprise. The timing wasn’t great. He would have preferred to bag an animal on his way back from dealing with Eustace, but he would take the opportunity as presented. This was exactly the cover he needed. Greg leaned his right shoulder against the tree trunk for extra stability and sighted the rifle down the animal’s neck to a spot just behind its shoulder.

  Just then, the animal turned it head in his direction, as if it sensed him. Greg pulled the trigger. The gun had a fierce sound, and it kicked like hell. The buck leapt forward, startled, took a couple of steps, then dropped. On the ground, however, it thrashed, trying to get up again. Not a perfect shot. Greg took aim again, but he was dealing with a moving target now. He took another shot, and another, hitting it on its underbelly, and finally the buck flopped down, dead.

  Your aim sucks, Greg chastised himself, rising from his place beside the tree. That was a much bigger target than Eustace, and he’s already a big target. If you can’t bring down a full-grown buck, how are you going to bring down a full-grown bearded idiot?

  He just needed to concentrate a little harder, hold his breath, and steady his hand. He could do it. At least, he told himself he could as he hurried toward the carcass. He folded the stock of the rifle and slid the strap over his shoulder again, though he could feel the heat of the barrel against his back and shoulder. It was lightweight. He appreciated that about the rifle. Easy to carry, super compact, comfortable to hold, and had a great, long-range scope. It would make this whole messy business a lot easier, even with his poor aim.

  As he knelt beside the carcass and drew his hunting knife, he felt good. He hadn’t entirely lied to his family. They would have heard the shots from the house, so they knew he was indeed hunting. He went to work field dressing the buck, gutting it right there on the snowy ground, splashing the blinding white snow with bright red blood and dark, greasy guts. It was, as always, a disgusting, smelly mess, and he didn’t have a way to really clean his gloves afterward except to scrub them in the snow.

  When the hard work of field dressing the carcass was done, he produced a length of nylon rope, tied it to the buck’s back legs, and hoisted it up into a nearby spruce tree. It was hard work, and he was bloody and tired by the time he’d finished. It didn’t help that he wasn’t completely over his cold. He still had a bit of the achiness, and his energy level was lower than usual.

  Finally, he buried the offal as best he could under the snow, spent some time trying to clean his gloves and knife, then he set off again, heading south toward Glenvell. If he’d had a way to contact his son, he would have told him to bring the wheelbarrow or cart and retrieve the buck. As it was, he would just have to hope a bear didn’t come along and snatch it.

  He followed roughly the same path he’d taken on his previous scouting trip, weaving his way north of town, keeping to the trees, until he came in sight of the town hall. He saw a few people strolling through the town center, but it was mostly pretty quiet. The bitter cold had no doubt driven folks indoors. Indeed, he could see smoke trailing from many chimneys, and firelight flickered through a few windows. As he moved past town, he spotted a couple of the local guards pushing a small handcart along a well-worn path, and he hunkered down to watch them. The handcart was piled high with what appeared to be large cloth sacks, possibly full of flour or some other grain. They were taking it in the direction of the warehouse. Greg waited until they were well past him before moving after them, stepping as lightly as possible.

  When he finally came in sight of the warehouse, he saw that they had cleared a large area of the parking lot just outside the small side door. Six people were there now, all bundled up so that Greg couldn’t tell who they were. A number of boxes and bags had been stacked here, and the contents of the handcart were currently being added to the piles.

  He’s stockpiling supplies, Greg realized. Just like Mayor Filmore.

  Among the bags and boxes were a number of large metal drums. They were unmarked, but when a couple of guards lifted one of them onto a dolly, Greg could tell they were heavy. As he watched, they positioned the barrels along the wall beside the door, but they took the bags, boxes, and other items through the door. Eustace appeared briefly on the other side, waving them inside the warehouse.

  What the hell are you planning, Eustace? Greg wondered.

  Because he was using the scope to watch them, Greg had the rifle pointed at Eustace, and for about two glorious seconds he had a perfect shot. His finger slid down to the trigger and rested there. But he hesitated. If he took the shot now, would he be able to get away from all of these guards? Not likely. And if they caught him, then what? What would become of his family?

  The uncertainty was just enough to make him waste those two seconds, and by then, Eustace had ducked back out of sight. Clearly, Eustace was up to something. Consolidating supplies, certainly, but was there more to it than that? What was in the big metal drums? Greg decided to move a little closer to get a better look.

  He crept forward, moving in a crouch and taking careful steps. He tried to use the trees, brush, and snow piles as cover, but when he got to within about thirty meters of the parking lot, he decided he’d taken as big a risk as he was willing to take. He crouched behind a pine tree with many low branches, raised the rifle, and gazed through the scope again.

  Greg watched them for a while as they unloaded the handcart. Then a couple of guards set out again, headed back toward town. Shifting his gaze back to the open door, Greg caught a glimpse of the inside of the warehouse. Stacks and stacks of bags, boxes, and barrels. Was Eustace looting every house and business in the entire city, area, province? What was his plan here, and how had he put together this little ragtag army? Were they the former city guards that Mayor Filmore had employed?

  He’s the CEO of a national energy company, Greg reminded himself. The guy has access to people and resources, and he knows how to motivate others. He has deep pockets and plenty of belligerence.

  Eustace stepped into the door then, a great red wall blocking his view of the warehouse interior, and suddenly Greg had a perfect shot again. The sight was lined up right on the middle of his torso. Greg could even see the details on the buttons of his flannel coat.

  Take the shot. Worry about the guards afterward. One bullet through the heart, then run like hell.

  But one of the guards stepped in the way then, passing something to Eustace, and Greg saw the AR-15 hanging from the man’s shoulder. No, the risk was too great. Despite Greg’s burning need for revenge, now was not the time.

  He was so furious at the missed opportunity that he was shaking. This made it hard to hold the scope still enough to see clearly. He lowered the rifle and slipped the strap over his shoulder.

  Another time, he told himself. You’ll have better opportunities. Just keep an eye on him. At some point, he’ll step outside, move away from his guards, or give you a clean shot.

  The guards pushing the handcart were just a little too close for comfort now, so Greg ducked behind the tree and listened as the sound receded in the direction of town. As he was doing that, he traced his own tracks back into the woods. He’d left fairly obvious footprints all along the way, and there was no falling snow now to cover them. He rose, intending to backtrack the same way, covering his tracks by using his own footprints.

  As he started to move in that direction, he noticed something just to the right that had escaped his notice before. Another set of tracks headed toward his position from the east, circling around in the area, then curved back the way they’d come. Someone else had been out here recently. Had they spotted his tracks? He dared to moved close to them, stepping out from behind cover to do so but keeping low.

  Someone’s patrolling the woods, he thought. If they’ve seen my tracks, they know someone’s been out here spying on the warehouse.

  Yes, that seemed likely, and as he thought about it, Greg’s anger suddenly melted, replaced by a strangling fear. Whoev
er it was, they would see Greg’s footprints when they came back through, if they hadn’t already. There was no way to stop that now. He couldn’t possibly cover himself. He glanced in the direction of the warehouse just in time to see a guard carrying the last bag through the door, then he started back the way he’d come.

  14

  Greg stepped carefully in his own deep footprints, hoping that somehow, he might fool anyone who tried to track him. The last thing he wanted to do was lead Eustace’s men all the way back to his house. Had he put his whole family in danger? The foolishness of this whole secret assassination quest suddenly seemed clear to him. He was out of his league, dealing with a dangerous group of people. Eustace was not Mayor Filmore. The man had years of experience running a large national company, which included covering up secrets, probably bribing and threatening powerful people, and generally getting away with criminal activity. And now, in a world with so little accountability, Eustace Simpson had become more dangerous than ever.

  Still, Greg couldn’t give up. He dared not abandon the mission. If anything, it was more imperative than ever that he take out Eustace.

  He has to die, Greg thought, for the thousandth time. But how do I pull this off? What if my cover is already blown?

  Somehow, he had to get Eustace away from his guards or at least away from the warehouse. Greg needed more advantageous circumstances before he took his shot. While he hated the idea of returning home with the mission incomplete, he didn’t see that he had much choice.

  Of course, just retracing his steps wouldn’t throw anyone off his trail. He would have to walk some loops in the woods, try to lead any trackers astray. It was going to be an ordeal. As he was planning it out in his mind, he heard distant shouting somewhere behind him. Greg froze. A woman’s voice, coming from the direction of the warehouse. She was shouting something over and over, and he held his breath and strained to make it out.

  “He’s back. He’s back. I spotted him. He’s back.”

  The realization that she was talking about him was like a jolt of electricity. Greg lurched forward. At the same time, he looked back over his shoulder, but he could no longer see the warehouse through all the trees and brush. The woman’s voice was soon joined by others, frantic people shouting over each other. In the middle of the noise, there was one voice sharper and angrier than the others, and Greg knew it was the boss.

  “Go, go, go, hurry,” he said. “Follow his tracks this time and get him. If you can, cut him off before he gets home. Don’t come back empty-handed.”

  It was too late to backtrack or hide his footsteps. Greg pulled the rifle off his shoulder and took off running as fast as he could in the deep snow. He hadn’t gone far when he heard his pursuers somewhere behind him. He didn’t dare look back for fear of tripping or falling. The terrain before him was treacherous, with the deceptively smooth snow hiding all sorts of roots, plants, and vines that he could trip on. He kept to his own tracks as best he could, if only to have an easier path.

  The path went due east, then gradually curved to the north, meandering through the trees. He was moving so fast now, it felt reckless, stepping high so he didn’t have to drag his legs through snow. His pursuers made no attempt to be quiet. Indeed, if anything, they were making far more noise than was necessary, shouting and cursing as they went.

  Greg had gone another fifty meters or so when he stumbled on a root half-buried in the snow and fell against the rough bark of a black walnut tree. He managed to soften the blow slightly by thrusting his bent arms in front of him, but in the process, he lost his grip on the rifle. It fell, hit another root, and tumbled into a snow drift.

  Using the momentum from his fall, Greg dropped his knees and thrust his hands into the snow, rooting around for the rifle. It had gone deep, but his left hand found the narrow stock and grabbed hold. Just then, he heard the sharp crack of another rifle as a bullet hit the trunk of the tree just above his head with a burst of bark. He felt the small pieces of bark bouncing off the back of his head and neck, saw others landing in the snow around him.

  He dared a glance back and saw a distant figure through a gap between trees. More than a hundred meters back but coming fast, some kind of long rifle in his hands. He was dressed all in black, with a fur-lined hood, and had what appeared to be tinted snow goggles over his eyes. Greg pulled Horace’s rifle out of the snow drift and lunged behind the nearest tree for cover.

  He was tempted to shoot back, but he feared that would only make himself vulnerable to his pursuers. Instead, he lifted the rifle in both hands, rose, and took off again, trying to keep the tree at his back as he cut a new path through deeper and more tangled woods. He could no longer high-step over the snow, so he tried to bulldoze with way through by brute strength alone. It was slower, but at least he had more obstacles between him and his pursuers.

  As he cut a path back in the direction of town, he could hear his pursuers spreading out behind him. One voice was moving to his left, another to his right, others staying in the middle. They were trying to cut him off. This caused a surge of adrenaline that overcame the lingering achiness in his body. He reached a large tangle of snow-dusted vines, but instead of going around them, he charged right through. He felt the vines pulling at his coat, at his snow pants, and he heard fabric ripping somewhere. But the sheer force of his advance tore through and he kept going.

  Ahead, he saw buildings on the edge of town. A couple of small houses in a cul-de-sac, the corner of the small shopping center. He debated briefly whether or not it was safer to move closer to town. Would they be less likely to fire on him? Probably not. Even if there was collateral damage, Eustace would just claim he was defending his property from a burglar.

  Greg didn’t want to put any innocent lives at risk, so he turned the other way, coming up alongside the backyard fence of one of the houses. Just then, he heard the crack of a rifle again and saw a puff of snow about ten feet to his right. When he looked back, he saw a figure that he knew immediately to be Officer Pam Grasier. She had found a gap between two trees just wide enough to take a shot at him.

  In a fit of panic, Greg tossed his rifle over the fence, leapt up onto the center crossbeam, and pulled himself up. He rolled over the tops of the fenceposts and fell into the backyard. On the way down, he hit some plastic surface, felt it buckle under his weight, then he slammed into the ground. He picked himself up and cast about for the rifle.

  He’d fallen on a small, plastic playground slide, knocking it down in the process. The rifle had fallen a few feet away. He scrambled for it on his hands and knees and picked it up. As he rose, he glanced toward the back of the house at a sliding glass door and saw someone standing in a gap between the vertical blinds. An old, white-haired woman in a purple housedress, she gaped at him like he was an alien that had fallen out of the sky.

  He waved her away and tried to mouth the words, “Hide. Get down,” though he was sure she didn’t understand him. She didn’t react. Feeling pain in his side from landing on the slide, Greg ran for the gate in the fence on the east side, pushed it open, and slipped through. Then he took off running again into the deepest and most overgrown part of the woods. Here, at least, the snow was not as deep, blocked by the dense canopy of evergreen boughs overhead. This enabled him to sprint full-out, the rifle tucked against his chest and belly. Out of breath, his blood rushing in his head, he cut a zigzagging path—east then north, then east, then north—as he gradually worked his way around the outskirts of Glenvell.

  Soon, he caught a glimpse of the town hall far to his left. This gave him enough of an indication of his location that he was able to adjust course. He heard a third gunshot, but it sounded farther away. Where the bullet hit, he had no idea. Out of breath, in pain, his legs on fire, he forced himself to keep moving as fast as his body would carry him, eventually reaching the back road that cut through the neighborhood. He saw his own tracks crossing the road here, and he followed them, hoping to somehow confuse his pursuers.

  Finally
, after perhaps another thirty minutes of running full-out, he felt his legs buckle, and he stumbled to a stop, catching himself against a small pine tree. Gasping for breath, his lungs burning and his legs on fire, he planted the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and turned, aiming back behind him. In between breaths, he heard sounds of his pursuers, but they seemed very far away now. He waited a minute, but they didn’t seem to get any closer.

  Finally, when he’d caught his breath, he resumed moving. He wanted to head back to the hanging deer carcass and drag the thing home, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He had to confuse his pursuers somehow, so he began walking in strange looping patterns through the woods, creating crisscrossing tracks that seemed to go in every direction. At one point, he came in sight of the rural highway, and he created a set of tracks leading right into the ditch, heading south for a while before cutting back into the woods.

  After almost an hour of this, he paused again and listened for his pursuers. He didn’t hear them at all. He didn’t hear anything. The snowy woods had grown deathly quiet, but he stood there for a bit, aiming the rifle into the distance and waiting. When the silence endured for a few more minutes, he finally started back toward home. Along the way, he passed through the backyard of the old Carmichael place and saw the rotting barn and old, empty house sitting in the snow like a forgotten grave.

  From there, he was able to adjust course and head for the deer carcass. He had a pretty good idea of where he’d left it, hanging from the sturdy limb of a spruce tree a few meters north of the back road. Along the way, he saw other tracks, which could have been his. He wasn’t sure. He’d left many paths in the woods that day.